


A Modern Man

by winslowak



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winslowak/pseuds/winslowak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ep.8 of Series 3 was pretty rushed, and left lots of loose ends (some more tantalizing than others). Here’s my attempt to connect some dots - and have some fun with DI Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Modern Man

“Dearly Beloved” was the last Jack heard of Father O’Leary’s sermon.  He was happy for Collins and Dot, delighted they’d found their way here, the church (any church!) to launch them into their life together. But had Collins solved the paradox of pursuing the modern woman? Jack didn’t think so. No. Energetic, youthful naiveté and the promise of post-wedding prizes had propelled them this far. He hoped that enthusiastic determination was a strong enough engine to withstand all that would inevitably weigh on them. Dot’s personal ambitions wouldn’t disappear once she became Mrs. Collins, their differences of opinion wouldn’t change despite a shared home address. Jack wished them luck.

Luck would not help him, though. 

To withstand a wedding ceremony seated next to Phryne, Jack had determined to assiduously refuse even to glance her way, and had allowed far more space than necessary for her to seat herself after escorting Dot down the aisle. He had to maintain boundaries - the ceremony, Phryne’s imminent departure, they would overwhelm him if he didn’t focus carefully on something else altogether. Despite his precautions though, he was, as always, keenly aware of her every twitch and rustle. Each time she shifted her legs a fresh bloom of perfume floated his way. Captured again (always) in Phryne’s inexorable orbit, Jack had no ears for the sermon. His thoughts settled on his own paradox. Pursuing Phryne had become a full-fledged operation; his current strategy was working well, but the tactics were tricky to deploy, and time was running out.

The overt jealousy and bitter censure were difficult to keep at bay, but of course only worked against him. However, what did work well was to take a stand for himself. By refusing to play the role of one of her Lotharios, Jack had drawn a line in the sand. A line that he wouldn’t cross, not a line that circumscribed her. It had been bracing - revelatory! - to claim his boundaries, his requirements for participation, his statement of self. This new attitude had become the lynch pin of his strategy to neutralize the paradox, a plan he had started thinking of as Operation Modern Man.

Operation Modern Man had two objectives. The first was to break the mold that kept him constricted to his work-bound habits, to step out of his perpetually reserved nature and enjoy life a little more. Take dancing lessons (that had gone brilliantly), brush up his German (that had netted him a few rousing evenings drinking beer and singing ribald songs - though he refused to wear lederhosen - ever), join a birdwatching group (awful, painful, not to be continued. He’d endured enough mind-numbing stakeouts). But more than finding a few new hobbies, Jack wanted to be as strong and singular and true - as modern - as Phryne. That was the only way he’d be able to both withstand her and match her - and hopefully keep her. The second objective, which required the success of the first, was to keep Phryne guessing.  He loved the look in her eye when he surprised her, loved that she softened a little more each time. Did she realize when her face took on that slightly dazed expression? It made him puff up with unreasonable, inordinate pride. He’d like to keep that expression stamped permanently in her lovely eyes. Thus, his plan.  
   
His plan required action, initiative and creativity.  These were all characteristics he was used to exploiting on the job, but had been alien to him in a relationship. Rosie had been the brigadier in the household. Nothing had been left to the imagination; the course was plotted and all there was left to do was to walk it. He had stumbled hard. He’d had enough of doing-without-thinking in the war. Was that what spurred him to take a stand in the police strike of ‘23? It had been in direct opposition to Rosie’s wishes, and his mutiny had been the start of his marriage’s demise. For years he regretted the disloyalty to Rosie, though never the risk he took to his career or the support of the cause. Now he could look back on it and see it as one of the first steps toward his own redemption, toward autonomy, toward, in fact, Phryne. Blindly following was a thing of the past. He felt almost equally blind in finding his path forward.

Phryne was a bulwark of self-confidence, but she had posses of admirable women who all helped buttress each other. She surrounded herself with fascinating thinkers, thrill-seeking adventurers, courageous politicians, daring artists. It was a good recipe.  
Jack thought of his own cadre of mates and mentors. The Victoria police force was a singularly un-modern institution, his German-speaking drinking buddies veered more toward analyzing the latest footie match, less to Nietzschean philosophy. The birders were just plain bonking boring. No, there was no one to offer him what he was looking for. Except Phryne. Phryne inspired him in more ways than he’d thought possible, and, he anticipated, in ways he’d yet to imagine (though his imagination was getting better). Jack felt the pew vibrate gently as Phryne recrossed her legs and settled her bottom more comfortably on the wooden seat. His imagination seemed to be in fine form, he thought lecherously. He stoically recrossed his own legs and focused resignedly on the large crucifix hanging behind Father O’Leary.

He thought of the lecture Phryne had dragged him to last week. “In Nineteen Seventy-Nine”. The writer Josephine Bacon had described her vision of life for women fifty years from now.  She could have been speaking of the Phryne and Dot of today: “She may have all job and no children, as she has surely a right to do, if she prefers this; or no job and all children, which some women will always prefer.” That was no prophesy, that was reportage! Mrs. Bacon had discussed jobs, technology, religion - Jack had been particularly stirred by her avowal that women will continue to grow less and less interested in what she may do when this life is ended, and more and more concerned with what she can accomplish while she is living it (he bet he could talk Nietzsche with Mrs. Bacon). Good words for everyone to live by, he mused as, for a moment, he registered Father O’Leary’s rising exhortations to the assembled to remain vigilant regarding their place in eternity. Dot looked serene, Collins was clearly locating and memorizing an access path through Dot’s wedding gown. He could hear Dr. Mac rolling her eyes. What was Phryne thinking right now? And had the space between them shrunk? How had that happened? All that knee crossing had hitched her hem up to reveal a ridiculous length of sheer silk stocking. Not that he was looking. He wasn’t. He was gazing attentively at the bride and groom, and fixedly moving his mind back to Mrs. Bacon’s excellent lecture. Jack was sure there was more to glean from it.

Mrs. Bacon had insisted that her own grandchildren would be different than herself, and that no one would bat an eye when a young woman of 1979 expected to visit Mars or Venus. Could he imagine Phryne traveling to Mars? No - her love of earthly delights was too devout, but he could certainly imagine her funding the scholarship that would help the woman who would pilot the ship. He winced as he remembered his telescope in the expanding universe line - none of that had come out has he had intended. Though - did it matter? It had been a huge, successful step! Jack closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the curve of her waist under his hand, the sleek softness of her blouse over the jut of her hipbone, the way her eyes widened and took on a luminous glow, swallowing him whole. There had been so much to soak up - how could he hurry a touch that had taken years to arrive? He wanted to savor every second of this magical time, moments that were already far too fleeting and that would end when she’d fly away - in mere hours. Hours that he planned to put to excellent use. 

While Phryne had been making arrangements for her early morning departure, Jack had made his own arrangements. His house was not nearly as resplendent as Phryne’s (well, it was like comparing Dionysus’ palace to Hephaestus’ cave - but Hephaestus did get Aphrodite), he had pulled his orchids out of the hot house and into his walled garden, strategically placing lanterns amongst the flowers. He’d laid out rugs and a table with two cushioned chairs, and an ice bucket with Phryne’s favorite champagne. Their next moment would last many many moments. He pictured the dress Phryne was wearing and started to consider its buttons and zippers - Collins was a smart man.

Eyes front Jack! he muttered, and glared at Father O’Leary’s cursed clerical collar.

Back to Mrs. Bacon. Too bad she hadn’t talked about the men, too. Who will talk about us? Won’t our lives necessarily have to change to accommodate, to answer - to emulate even? - the women’s looming, sweeping role upheaval? But he already knew the answer to that question - he was proof that it was already happening. We need our own revolution, Jack thought. Where could he find a posse for himself?  

Phryne had, of course, organized an “intimate” soiree reception for Mrs. Bacon, including a hundred of her friends and fellow feminist enthusiasts. Jack had refused his invitation out of habit, but after listening to Mrs. Bacon for the hour, he was thoroughly intrigued. He had taken the opportunity to send Cec and Bert off with Mrs. Bacon and a gaggle of ardent acolytes, and to escort Phryne to the venue himself (for which he did, inevitably, have to pay a price. He should have known Phryne would hold the reception in a speak-easy. He had not been prepared to explain his presence in a non-official capacity, and was in a quandary as to figure out how not to round up half the guests for indecency, inebriation and more. On the other hand, the chance to have her in the car to himself for a quarter hour to drop a well-calculated reference to his upcoming plans to hike Mount Buffalo with Alice Manfield - “Guide Alice” - the pioneering outdoors woman whom Phryne had admired for years - and see Phryne’s wonder and glowing approval (followed by a torrent of jealous outrage) - well, that had been well worth the subsequent professional awkwardness).

The soiree itself had warranted tolerating the crush. In fact, one hundred happy feminists was a hell of a lot more entertaining than a dozen drunken men speaking bad German. Jack never got close enough to Mrs. Bacon to quiz her on her thoughts of the changing roles of men, but he did discover that he and Margaret Rose Preston, an artist whose paintings of flowers and gardens he admired greatly - and, yes, coveted - had identical tastes in gin and tonics. He invited her to make use of his garden of orchids as a studio any time she liked. She was delighted to say yes and he was astonished it was just that easy to start a friendship.  He got into a deep discussion with one of his personal heroes, the brilliant horticulturist Ina Higgins, about the advantages of native landscaping versus cajoling traditional British gardens to grow in the harsh Australian climate. He even let Phryne coax him onto the dance floor, where he realized he was dancing with 5 partners at once.  

As Jack ruminated on the breadth and depth of the people (even a few fellow men) he’d met that evening, he realized he’d just been looking for his posse in the wrong places. He would rely on these remarkable people to give him strength, to discuss ideas and find inspiration. And then he would go right back to his group of footie-obsessed mates and make a point of saying at least one insurrectionary thing an evening. Jack would just have to lead his own revolution.

That was an excellent resolution, he thought, and to reward himself he finally allowed himself a full look at Phryne. She was queenlike, radiating happy approval upon the proceedings. She glanced over, her eyebrows arching when she realized he was staring back. She smiled the faintest of smiles, he returned one of his own. He sat forward and rested his right hand on the pew, fingers splayed. She leaned back and regally posed her left hand beside her. Their pinkies just managed to touch. They both looked forward. Hugh and Dot took their first married kiss.

For all that the ceremony was in essence impromptu, Father O’Leary had outdone himself for his favorite parishioner. He’d sermonized for a full 45 minutes, and added so many extra comments and admonishments to the marriage recitation (Jack suspected the Father was not thoroughly convinced of Collins’ conversion) that it was dark when they exited the church. The Baron appropriated Phryne’s arm to escort him out. Jack almost laughed out loud at her backwards glare. Jack and Mac proffered elbows to each other, which, he admitted, was excellent. He couldn’t fathom walking up a church aisle with Phryne. Besides, he had a feeling Dr. Mac would be a more satisfying drinking companion than the German footballers, and infinitely better at commiserating over Phryne’s absence. It was time to get to know her better. One more for his posse.

Outside the church, the small band of friends waved goodbye to the giddy couple. Jack, at last, eased next to Phryne. He felt his skin tighten and his muscles relax as he brushed against her back, isolating the two of them. What was she saying to him? More star watching? He’d had enough of astronomy already. He just wanted her. She gazed at the stars, and he gazed at her. He watched her lips open in wonder, marveled at seeing the reflection of the sky in her eyes, felt the warmth she emanated envelop him. He put his hand in the small of her back as he leaned in to whisper in her ear the invitation he’d spent the day rehearsing, pausing a moment to feel her hair on his cheek and breathe in that achingly Phryne perfume - it was different when he could smell it directly off her neck. It had more of her own personal, secret scent. Moister. Richer.

“Miss Fisher, I …”

“Inspector! Inspector!”

A constable - Collins’ temporary replacement, what was his name? - bounced on his toes in front of him, twisting his hands, mangling the paper he was clutching.

“There’s been a murder!”

******

Jack looked at his watch for the hundredth time. It was no use. He couldn’t hurry procedure, he couldn’t leave, he couldn’t ask Phryne to wait up - or to wait at all. He took out his notebook and wrote a note:

Dear Miss Fisher,  
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.  And the Victoria Constabulary, curse them.  
Please send return with time/loc lift-off.  
Jack

And on the back, he added before he could stop himself,

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,  My love as deep; the more I give to thee,  The more I have, for both are infinite.

You read my palm correctly after all

******

Collins’ replacement was far more trouble than he was worth (had Collins ever been this awkward?). Jack had no patience for teaching him, no tolerance for his ineptitude. The witnesses to interview stretched for hours, as Not-Collins was unable to perform any on his own. His only (though Jack decided it was almost enough) redeeming qualification was as messenger. Jack had sent the boy to deliver the note to Miss Fisher and wait for a reply.

The night was endless, yet dawn was equally unwelcome. When Jack stepped outside at last, the sky was brightening and the kookaburras and macaws were jabbering in the trees. Last night’s trash eddied in the gutters of the street, and a fetid breeze pulled his forelock loose and swirled his trench coat about his legs. Jack noticed none of it. He only registered that it was too late find Phryne at home. Too late to sit her amongst his orchids and ply her with champagne, read her poetry or teach her his favorite vulgar German drinking song. Too late to talk into the night or kiss her senseless. Too late to even say good bye? He pulled out her return note, already wrinkled and worn; all night he had unconsciously stuck his hand in his pocket to smooth the fine card stock, feel its edges, trace the fold, rub the inked 7:00, Moorabbin.  He opened it now and read the inside again, Dear Jack - I’ th’ East my pleasure lies. P.    
Antony strikes again, Jack thought. He looked at his watch. It was 6:00.

Jack had never taken advantage of his position as a police officer to benefit himself, but he did this morning, extracting every last watt of horsepower from the wretched government car. He would not see her off encrusted with a night’s worth of filth and smelling of a crime scene.  

At home, he saw his orchids had fared poorly out-of-doors for the evening. The champagne bottle listed wetly in the melted icewater. The cushions had a sheen of dew, the blankets were limp and damp. One more script cast to the winds! Forced to improvise again - not his strong suit, he knew, but he did have an excellent parrying partner. He turned his back on his back-yard set and hurried to change his clothes.  

The propeller was already spinning when he careened onto the airstrip. What would he say to her? Antony’s words to Cleopatra hummed in his head. 

Egypt, thou knew’st too well  
 My heart was to thy rudder tied by th’ strings,   
And thou shouldst tow me after.  
O’er my spirit Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that   
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods   
Command me.

But even Shakespeare deserted him when he saw her running to him. His heart flipped and stalled, and all he managed was an inane “You’re flying all the way to England in that?”

Action, Jack. It’s time for action!  

In the end, what were words? Feeble representations of emotions far too big to voice. Phryne had always heard what lay beneath, though. And now can you feel what lies within? Jack poured it all into his kiss. When they broke apart, it was clear that she had. Entirely.

Come after you? he thought as she tripped back to the plane. Why would I stop now?

**Author's Note:**

> The extra characters I’ve thrown in are all historical figures who were either in Australia at the time or were known there (like the American writer Josephine Bacon), though obviously I’ve taken as much liberty with them as I have with Kerry Greenwood’s fantastic characters. Other bits, like whether there was a landing strip in Moorabbin in 1929 (there is one now), I’m just winging. I love writing, but have never tried fiction - let alone fanfic. I hope you liked it.


End file.
